Ghost Writer

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Someone asked me recently what I think of modern society. My answer is in the poem. 

I suspect many if not most of us are hypocrites up to a point; we often say one thing, but think and/or do the opposite. What bothers me most, though, is it feels like we are on a conveyor belt, hypocrites being moulded by our so-called betters who are no better than us at all, worse in fact, but untouchable for reasons best known to themselves for having contrived to be placed among society's 'betters'.  

Money talks, power talks, but nothing and no one talks louder than hypocrisy, the more so because it is is a silent, invisible enemy, and if we do succeed in exposing it, the chances are not only that the damage it is intended to inflict has already done its worst, but not even by whomsoever seems the likely author. We are left chasing shadows...

Such is life,I guess. All we can do is stay as alert to hypocrisy as possible, resist the temptation to give as good as we get, and encourage mind-body-spirit to keep looking on the bright side of life. 


GHOST WRITER

You’ll find me among shadows

insinuating nooks and crannies of a mind

co-writing fictions of the heart,

creating ‘No Go’ areas for such truths

as would make themselves known,

walk tall in sunlight, crusade with pride

against bigotry, shred it into pieces

and toss away, cocksure, no loose ends left

for tapers to mischief

I have no time for huts and hovels,

but churches, cathedrals, mosques, temples,

places where authority courts respect,

and if anyone suspect any double dealing

or duplicity, few will care to grasp

the nettle for fear its sting prove fatal

or, worse, provide propaganda

likely to earn a prime time slot on TV,

even win me converts

I always side with Law and Order,

ready to monitor and ratify any small print,

often left unread, I have to agree,

but who can blame me for a human foible

comprising aspects people prefer

to toss away, cocksure, no loose ends left

for tapers to mischief, never dreaming

their best intentions may well provide fuel

for its burning?

I prey on the goodwill of a gullible humanity,

feeding on its conscience, who am Hypocrisy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Note: First published in Tracking the Torchbearer by R N Taber, Assembly Books, 2012

Victims

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Domestic abuse can happen anywhere in the world at any time. More often than not family members and/or friends and/or neighbours and/or teachers and/or work colleagues may have suspicions. It is not a subject on which anyone should remain silent for fear of being wrong. Better to be proven wrong than let a wrong continue and say nothing, surely…? 

Domestic abuse is not uncommon in any society; men, women, children, it can happen to anyone. Yet, the same people that will protest about environmental and Human Rights abuses will often remain silent about domestic abuse.  Where is the logic in that and what excuses can there be? Yes, well, plenty of excuses; even love - to its everlasting shame - is one of the masks perpetrators of domestic abuse often wear.

VICTIMS

Brightness falling from the sky

like summer rain, makes flowers grow,

the world shine like rainbow trout

on a school kid's line at a local stream

who should be in the football team,

but his dad's beat him black and blue

where ma's laid out on the kitchen floor,

can't take any more

Brightness falling from the sky

like acid rain, making the trees cry

as leaves die like fishes in the sea,

collector specimens neatly laid out

under glass for generations to see
how dead things appear to suggest

a history of human deprivation for want
of a better education

Shadows, like corpses on the grass;

skylark, a near forgotten sound at a spot

where revelations in the clay suggest

a once-busy stream in a world earmarked

for the winning team, the rest of us

neatly laid out under corporate glass,

(preserved for a new century, a new class)

victims of abuse

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2016

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears in 1st eds. of Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Getting it Wrong

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I often look at contemporary UK society and don’t like what I see; more litter louts; more people strung out across pavements so other cannot pass; more folks on the MP3 players or mobile phones who have no awareness of their immediate surroundings and expect everyone else to get out of their way; more elderly people having to stand on crowded trains and buses where the majority of those sitting down are under thirty-five; even more occasions when it’s a case of first in the bus queue and last (if at all) to get on the bus…the list is endless.

My first boss at a public library where I worked after leaving school (in 1964) told me that a public library is a microcosm of society. It is so true. You meet all types in libraries. As many if not most public library services in parts of the UK have gone into freefall so, too, has society. Good manners, for a start, seem to have flown out of the proverbial window. Few people say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ any more, but take any services rendered, even everyday acts of kindness for granted. On the streets of London, the majority push, shove, everyone for themselves without as much as an ‘Excuse me please’ or a ‘Sorry, I pushed you into the road or against a wall. If you complain, the chances are you will be verbally or even physically abused. The last time I shouted at a cyclist riding on a busy pavement who sent me sprawling as I came out of a shop…I was told, ‘F***k off, you old fart!’ Needless to say, I continue to protest.

Life is a balancing act, I guess; we can get it right some of the time (even most, with any luck) but few if any of us can expect its scales to weigh in our favour all the time...however hard we try.

Thankfully, there are many exceptions to bad apples; if we look hard enough, we will see the bigger picture, and find some lovely people out there…

GETTING IT WRONG

Bus stops, anarchy;

assault-by-default on mad,

rush hour trains

Death on our roads,

date rape in bars, gun law

on angry streets

Disabled access

in key places leaving  much 

to be desired

Perverts coasting;

hypocrites anxiously taking

Communion

Minority groups,

milking political correctness

for all its worth

Human rights,

where the machinery of justice

badly need oiling

Imagination, 

getting the better of worsening 

world scenarios

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appeared under the title 'All the Wrong Pieces' in an anthology Upon Reflection, Poetry Now (Forward Press), 2004 and in  A Feeling for the Quickness of  Time by R. N. Taber  (2005)]

Making sense of Numbers

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Before I retired, I was a librarian working in public libraries here in the UK. It has been a source of great concern to me in recent years that a growing of children and young people asking for help in finding material for homework projects had such poor literacy and numeracy skills. For some adults too, of course, that may not have had the benefit of much formal education, these skills same remain underdeveloped.

It has always seemed to me that numeracy is somehow seen as the poor relation to literacy even though a grasp of number is every bit as important as a grasp of letters.

 ‘Karl’ and ‘Brett’ once wrote in to tell me how getting help to improve their numeracy skills ‘by leaps and bounds’ had considerably boosted their self-confidence. Karl says ‘Numbers were like a foreign language. I could not make any sense of them.  I was made to feel I was in a minority and was too ashamed to ask for help. I got paranoid and it felt like there was some sort of conspiracy against people like me. I didn’t realise so many people have the same problem. Now I can even work out rail and bus timetables. Before finding a really good (home) teacher I was clueless about the 2400 hours clock.’

Believe me Karl, 2400 hours timetables confuse a LOT of people.

This poem is a villanelle.

MAKING SENSE OF NUMBERS

It can feel like a conspiracy,

(the world an enemy)

this nightmare, innumeracy

Out shopping, and invariably

spending too much money;

it can feel like a conspiracy

Debts spiraling relentlessly

(affront to integrity)

this nightmare, innumeracy

I look at my friends and envy

their budgeting effortlessly;

it can feel like a conspiracy

I once confessed ashamedly

to life turning sour on me,

this nightmare, innumeracy

I found support and sympathy

and help for others like me;

it can feel like a conspiracy,

this nightmare, innumeracy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

A Life in the Day of an Ordinary Joe

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My maternal grandfather was a delightful, rascal of a man who fought in World War1 and shared a good few ups and downs with my grandmother until he died peacefully in his sleep in 1969. I once confided in him that I felt so frustrated because I wasn’t doing anything with my life.

‘No doing anything with your life?’ he retorted. “You’re getting on with it, aren’t you? What more can anyone do?’

I guess granddad was also something of a philosopher in his own inimitable way...

A LIFE IN THE DAY OF AN ORDINARY JOE or CONTEMPORANEITY, 

On a long, long road

going…where?

Clouds, gathering

for a storm

People, clutching rolled umbrellas

as if for dear life

Children, forgotten

how to play

Parents, frightened

of failing

Sunlight, persuading ghosts to write

a Book of Shadows

Thin, polluted air

up the nose

Sounds of battle

in the ears 

World leaders playing cat and mouse

with private lives

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: First published in CC and D magazine v 215, Scars (US) 2010.]

Universal Soldier

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Today’s poem has appeared on the blog twice; in 2007 and 2009. I am repeating it again for no other reason than I feel a need to let off steam.  Hopefully, new readers and those who never have time to browse the blog archives will enjoy the poem and regular readers won’t mind becoming reacquainted with it. Mind you, I cannot (and don’t) expect everyone to like every poem I write...

I am coping with hormone therapy for my prostate cancer, but with some difficulty. I dread going shopping on my own. Some days, it seems that everywhere I go I am a target for abuse, the more so for refusing to take being treated badly with a nod and a smile as if that’s perfectly okay. I can’t wait to get home, sometimes close to tears and falling apart, to let several cups of tea help put me back together again. [Mind you, my mother did warn me that as you get older, you become more and more invisible...] Oh, well it is what you come to expect when you live in some areas of London. So why don’t I moved away? Well, I can’t afford to, and besides why should I?

What is it about humankind, I often wonder, that our need and desire for peace of mind is invariably undermined by someone else’s appetite for conflict? I guess the trouble is, the latter often if not always provokes the same in us.

It doesn’t even take a war, not here in London anyway. You might glare at someone for nearly knocking you flying because they are on their mobile phone so you are expected to get out of their way, but weren’t quite quick enough, and the next minute you are on the receiving end of a stream of verbal abuse. Or you are crossing the road and someone walks right in front of you causing you to stumble. (It is your fault, of course.) Or you are on an escalator at a London Underground station and someone in a hurry pushes you so you fall but (hopefully) avoid a serious accident. You protest and are either ignored or, again, verbally abused for being in the way. Or you are coming out of a shop, and some cyclist who thinks he or she has every right to ride on a busy pavement sends you sprawling and rides on without a care. By the time you are nearly home, the slightest thing is likely to trigger rage, and then someone suggests you need anger management.

An average week (if not day) in the life of a pensioner in London...

Yesterday a little lad about 6 years-old was playing on the floor in a store where I was queuing. Apparently, I knocked his head with my basket. The mother laid into me verbally as if I had done it on purpose. She demanded I apologise in such a way that I stormed out of the store without purchasing my items rather than stay within an inch of the woman and her children another second. Maybe she was right and I was wrong. Whatever, it was the last straw in a chain of events that made me feel like going to war with the entire human race; end-game, annihilation.

Today has to be a better day...Well doesn’t it...?

UNIVERSAL SOLDIER

Wrestling in the womb
with thoughts I cannot know,
feelings unable to show,
I start to grow…
the way of all humanity
that’s gone before, a personality
and identity to call my own
though I take my place
in a world anxious for a face,
to place here, there, 
within the easier confines 
of a history classroom taught, 
and purpose-built

Wrestling in the womb
with thoughts I cannot know,
feelings unable to show,
I continue to grow…
a microcosm of all human
endeavour, facing the complexities
of fate without a murmur,
one to one with God
without fear of the world’s
goading icons, relishing centuries
of silence brought soundly
to bear upon Man’s first cry,
'War, war, war!'

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]